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Touching Stories
- Pembuat thread awal. Jessica
- Tanggal Mulai
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Highway 109
A drunk man in an Oldsmobile,
They said, had run the light
That caused the six-car pileup
On 109 that night.
When broken bodies lay about
And blood was everywhere,
The sirens screamed out elegies,
For death was in the air.
A mother, trapped inside her car,
Was heard above the noise;
Her plaintive plea near split the air:
“Oh, God, please spare my boys!”
She fought to loose her pinned hands;
She struggled to get free,
But mangled metal held her fast
In grim captivity.
Her frightened eyes then focused
On where the back seat once had been,
But all she saw was broken glass and
Two children’s seats crushed in.
Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
She did not hear them cry,
And then she prayed they’d been thrown free,
“Oh, God, don’t let them die!”
Then firemen came and cut her loose,
But when they searched the back,
The found therein no little boys,
But the seat belts were intact.
They thought the women had gone mad
And was traveling alone,
But when they turned to question her,
They discovered she was gone.
Policemen saw her running wild
And screaming above the noise
In beseeching supplication,
“Please help me find my boys!
They’re four years old and wear blue shirts;
Their jeans are blue to match.”
Once cop spoke up, “They’re in my car,
And they don’t have a scratch.
They said their daddy put them there
And gave them each a cone
Then told them both to wait for Mom
To come and take them home.
I’ve searched the area high and low,
But I can’t find their dad.
He must have fled the scene,
I guess, and that is very bad.”
The mother hugged the twins and said,
While wiping at a tear,
“He could not flee the scene, you see,
For he’s been dead a year.”
The cop just looked confused and asked,
“Now, how can that be true?”
The boys said, “Mommy, Daddy came
And left a kiss for you.
He told us not to worry
And that you would be all right,
And then he put us in this car with
The pretty, flashing light.
We wanted him to stay with us,
Because we miss him so,
But Mommy, he just hugged us tight
And said he had to go.
He said someday we’d understand
And told us not to fuss,
And he said to tell you, Mommy,
He’s watching over us.”
The mother knew without a doubt
That what they spoke was true,
For she recalled their dad’s last words,
“I will watch over you.”
The firemen’s notes could not explain
The twisted, mangled car
And how the three of them escaped
Without a single scar.
But on the cop’s report was scribed,
In print so very fine,
An angel walked the beat tonight
On Highway 109.
A drunk man in an Oldsmobile,
They said, had run the light
That caused the six-car pileup
On 109 that night.
When broken bodies lay about
And blood was everywhere,
The sirens screamed out elegies,
For death was in the air.
A mother, trapped inside her car,
Was heard above the noise;
Her plaintive plea near split the air:
“Oh, God, please spare my boys!”
She fought to loose her pinned hands;
She struggled to get free,
But mangled metal held her fast
In grim captivity.
Her frightened eyes then focused
On where the back seat once had been,
But all she saw was broken glass and
Two children’s seats crushed in.
Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
She did not hear them cry,
And then she prayed they’d been thrown free,
“Oh, God, don’t let them die!”
Then firemen came and cut her loose,
But when they searched the back,
The found therein no little boys,
But the seat belts were intact.
They thought the women had gone mad
And was traveling alone,
But when they turned to question her,
They discovered she was gone.
Policemen saw her running wild
And screaming above the noise
In beseeching supplication,
“Please help me find my boys!
They’re four years old and wear blue shirts;
Their jeans are blue to match.”
Once cop spoke up, “They’re in my car,
And they don’t have a scratch.
They said their daddy put them there
And gave them each a cone
Then told them both to wait for Mom
To come and take them home.
I’ve searched the area high and low,
But I can’t find their dad.
He must have fled the scene,
I guess, and that is very bad.”
The mother hugged the twins and said,
While wiping at a tear,
“He could not flee the scene, you see,
For he’s been dead a year.”
The cop just looked confused and asked,
“Now, how can that be true?”
The boys said, “Mommy, Daddy came
And left a kiss for you.
He told us not to worry
And that you would be all right,
And then he put us in this car with
The pretty, flashing light.
We wanted him to stay with us,
Because we miss him so,
But Mommy, he just hugged us tight
And said he had to go.
He said someday we’d understand
And told us not to fuss,
And he said to tell you, Mommy,
He’s watching over us.”
The mother knew without a doubt
That what they spoke was true,
For she recalled their dad’s last words,
“I will watch over you.”
The firemen’s notes could not explain
The twisted, mangled car
And how the three of them escaped
Without a single scar.
But on the cop’s report was scribed,
In print so very fine,
An angel walked the beat tonight
On Highway 109.
alle_say_yo
IndoForum Beginner E
- No. Urut
- 18759
- Sejak
- 12 Jul 2007
- Pesan
- 507
- Nilai reaksi
- 5
- Poin
- 18
he-em that was nice like when i heard that Jack Thompson didn't blame on a violence video game again good job man. Thanks god i still have my mom and dad.
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
I Wish You Enough
At an airport, I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her plane’s departure and standing near the door, he said to his daughter, “I love you, I wish you enough.”
She said, “Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough too, Daddy.” They kissed good-bye, and she left. He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there, I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me by asking, “Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing that it would be forever?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my Dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant to me. So I knew what this man was experiencing.
“Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever good-bye?” I asked.
“I am old, and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead, and the reality is her next trip back will be for my funeral,” he said.
“When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, ‘I wish you enough.’ May I ask what that means?”
He began to smile. “That’s a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone.” He paused for a moment, and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more.
“When we said ‘I wish you enough’, we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with enough good things to sustain them.” He continued, and then turning toward me, he shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.
“I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough ‘Hello’s’ to get you through the final ‘Good-bye’.”
He then began to sob and walked away.
At an airport, I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her plane’s departure and standing near the door, he said to his daughter, “I love you, I wish you enough.”
She said, “Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough too, Daddy.” They kissed good-bye, and she left. He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there, I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me by asking, “Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing that it would be forever?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my Dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant to me. So I knew what this man was experiencing.
“Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever good-bye?” I asked.
“I am old, and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead, and the reality is her next trip back will be for my funeral,” he said.
“When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, ‘I wish you enough.’ May I ask what that means?”
He began to smile. “That’s a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone.” He paused for a moment, and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more.
“When we said ‘I wish you enough’, we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with enough good things to sustain them.” He continued, and then turning toward me, he shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.
“I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough ‘Hello’s’ to get you through the final ‘Good-bye’.”
He then began to sob and walked away.
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Kisses
The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree.
Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, “This is for you, Daddy.” He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found the box was empty. He yelled at her, “Don’t you know when you give someone a present, there’s supposed to be something in it?”
The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, “Oh, Daddy, it’s not empty, I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy.” The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
An accident took the life of the child only a short time later, and it is told that the man kept that gold box by his bed for many years, and whenever he was discourage, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree.
Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, “This is for you, Daddy.” He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found the box was empty. He yelled at her, “Don’t you know when you give someone a present, there’s supposed to be something in it?”
The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, “Oh, Daddy, it’s not empty, I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy.” The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
An accident took the life of the child only a short time later, and it is told that the man kept that gold box by his bed for many years, and whenever he was discourage, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Loving Family
I ran into a stranger as he passed by,
“Oh, excuse me please,” was my reply.
He said, “Please excuse me too;
I just wasn’t watching for you.”
We were very polite, this stranger and I.
We went on our way, and we said good-bye.
But at home, a different story is told,
How we treat our loved ones, young and old.
Later that day, cooking the evening meal,
My son stood beside me, very still.
When I turned, I nearly knocked him down.
“Move out of the way,” I said with a frown.
He walked away, his little heart broken.
I didn’t realize how harshly I’d spoken.
While I lay awake in bed,
God’s still small voice came to me and said,
“While dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
But the family you love, you seem to abuse.
Go and look on the kitchen floor;
You’ll find some flowers there by the door.
Those are the flowers he brought for you.
He picked them himself: pink, yellow, and blue.
He stood very quietly not to spoil the surprise;
You never saw the tears that filled his little eyes.”
By this time, I felt very small,
And now my tears began to fall.
I quietly went and knelt by his bed;
“Wake up, little one, wake up,” I said.
“Are these flowers you picked for me?”
He smiled, “I found them, out by the tree.
I picked them because they’re pretty like you.
I knew you’d like them, especially the blue.”
I said, “Son, I’m sorry for the way I acted today;
I shouldn’t have yelled at you that way.”
He said, “Mom, that’s okay.
I love you anyway.”
I said, “Son, I love you too,
And I do like the flowers, especially the blue.”
FAMILY
Are you aware that if we died tomorrow, the company we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of days or weeks? But the family we left behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives. And come to think of it, we pour ourselves more into work than in our own family, and unwise investment indeed, don’t you think? So what is behind the story?
Do you know what the word FAMILY means?
FAMILY = (F)ATHER (A)ND (M)OTHER (I) (L)OVE (Y)OU
I ran into a stranger as he passed by,
“Oh, excuse me please,” was my reply.
He said, “Please excuse me too;
I just wasn’t watching for you.”
We were very polite, this stranger and I.
We went on our way, and we said good-bye.
But at home, a different story is told,
How we treat our loved ones, young and old.
Later that day, cooking the evening meal,
My son stood beside me, very still.
When I turned, I nearly knocked him down.
“Move out of the way,” I said with a frown.
He walked away, his little heart broken.
I didn’t realize how harshly I’d spoken.
While I lay awake in bed,
God’s still small voice came to me and said,
“While dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
But the family you love, you seem to abuse.
Go and look on the kitchen floor;
You’ll find some flowers there by the door.
Those are the flowers he brought for you.
He picked them himself: pink, yellow, and blue.
He stood very quietly not to spoil the surprise;
You never saw the tears that filled his little eyes.”
By this time, I felt very small,
And now my tears began to fall.
I quietly went and knelt by his bed;
“Wake up, little one, wake up,” I said.
“Are these flowers you picked for me?”
He smiled, “I found them, out by the tree.
I picked them because they’re pretty like you.
I knew you’d like them, especially the blue.”
I said, “Son, I’m sorry for the way I acted today;
I shouldn’t have yelled at you that way.”
He said, “Mom, that’s okay.
I love you anyway.”
I said, “Son, I love you too,
And I do like the flowers, especially the blue.”
FAMILY
Are you aware that if we died tomorrow, the company we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of days or weeks? But the family we left behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives. And come to think of it, we pour ourselves more into work than in our own family, and unwise investment indeed, don’t you think? So what is behind the story?
Do you know what the word FAMILY means?
FAMILY = (F)ATHER (A)ND (M)OTHER (I) (L)OVE (Y)OU
Ajido-Marujido
IndoForum VIP: The Special One
- No. Urut
- 10016
- Sejak
- 31 Des 2006
- Pesan
- 4.815
- Nilai reaksi
- 146
- Poin
- 63
wow, I just knew that word "FAMILY" is very unique 
Father and Mother I Love You
gr8 !!
Father and Mother I Love You
gr8 !!
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Miracle
A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. The total had to be exactly perfect. No change here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew, and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry, but can’t help you, the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he’s really sick, and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago.
“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed free of charge, and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
“That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost…one dollar and eleven cents…plus the faith of a little child...
A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. The total had to be exactly perfect. No change here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew, and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry, but can’t help you, the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he’s really sick, and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago.
“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed free of charge, and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
“That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost…one dollar and eleven cents…plus the faith of a little child...
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Miracle
A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. The total had to be exactly perfect. No change here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew, and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry, but can’t help you, the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he’s really sick, and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago.
“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed free of charge, and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
“That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost…one dollar and eleven cents…plus the faith of a little child...
A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. The total had to be exactly perfect. No change here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew, and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry, but can’t help you, the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he’s really sick, and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago.
“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed free of charge, and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
“That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost…one dollar and eleven cents…plus the faith of a little child...
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Pickle Jar
As far back as I can remember, the pickle jar sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coin into the jar. As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then, the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.
I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate’s treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bunk. Taking the coins to the bunk was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.
Each and every time as we drove to the bunk, Dad would look at me hopefully. “Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You’re going to do better than me. This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.” Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bunk toward the cashier, he would grin proudly “These are for my son’s college fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.”
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. “When we get home, we’ll start filling the jar again.” He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief happy jingle, we grinned at each other. “You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,” he said. “But you’ll get there. I’ll see to that.”
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throats as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words and never lectured me on the values of determination perseverance and faith.
The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than most flowery of words could have done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.
No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out of me. “When you finish college, Son,” he told me, his eyes glistening, “you’ll never have to eat beans again – unless you want to.”
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms. “She probably needs to be changed,” she said, carrying the baby into my parents’ bedroom to diaper her.
When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. “Look,” she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
As far back as I can remember, the pickle jar sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coin into the jar. As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then, the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.
I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate’s treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bunk. Taking the coins to the bunk was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.
Each and every time as we drove to the bunk, Dad would look at me hopefully. “Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You’re going to do better than me. This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.” Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bunk toward the cashier, he would grin proudly “These are for my son’s college fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.”
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. “When we get home, we’ll start filling the jar again.” He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief happy jingle, we grinned at each other. “You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,” he said. “But you’ll get there. I’ll see to that.”
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throats as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words and never lectured me on the values of determination perseverance and faith.
The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than most flowery of words could have done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.
No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out of me. “When you finish college, Son,” he told me, his eyes glistening, “you’ll never have to eat beans again – unless you want to.”
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms. “She probably needs to be changed,” she said, carrying the baby into my parents’ bedroom to diaper her.
When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. “Look,” she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
Jessica
IndoForum Newbie B
- No. Urut
- 22212
- Sejak
- 16 Sep 2007
- Pesan
- 246
- Nilai reaksi
- 4
- Poin
- 18
Seize The Day
Around the corner, I have a friend
In this great city that has no end.
Yet the days go by, and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friend’s face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine; we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I will call on Jim
Just to show that I’m thinking of him.”
But tomorrow comes, and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner – yet miles away,
“Here’s a telegram sir. Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
Around the corner, I have a friend
In this great city that has no end.
Yet the days go by, and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friend’s face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine; we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “I will call on Jim
Just to show that I’m thinking of him.”
But tomorrow comes, and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner – yet miles away,
“Here’s a telegram sir. Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
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